


Rift

by SteveGarbage



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Circle of Magi, Gen, Mage Rebellion, Orlais, Orlesian Grand Game, Rift Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-09-13 04:36:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9106861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteveGarbage/pseuds/SteveGarbage
Summary: When the Circles of Thedas fell, not all rebelled. While Templars and mages war across the world, the mages themselves still stand divided. The Loyalists pledge themselves to the Inquisition in hopes of restoring their lost Circles. But as the Herald of Andraste recruits the Rebel mages to his cause, both sides must confront their differences as they fight to restore order to Thedas.(Note: I do not use in-chapter trigger warnings. This story contains many sexual themes, some graphic violence, some limited backstory about torture/abuse of an underage character, and instances of sexually aggressive acts/fantasies. It's rated M for Mature.)





	1. Chapter 1

**One**

The Comtesse sat up on her forearms, lying on her stomach, her bare back arched and her chocolate hair spilling over her shoulder as she turned her head.

Taesas sat at the end of the couch, buttoning the front of his velvet jacket.

“You should dress. Your presence will be missed,” he told her flatly. “And you’ll stain the longue.”

The Comtesse moaned and kicked her legs up and down like a child throwing a tantrum, her feet bouncing off the white padded cushions. The ornate chaise was the centerpiece of the library. The dark hardwood had been hand hewed from the Tirashan in the far west. The legs of the chair were intricately carved to resemble a lion’s paws, while the gently sloping back took on the form of a roaring lion. The cushions were upholstered in pure Vyrantium samite imported from Tevinter, so pristinely white that any extended use would spoil it forever.

The Comtesse had demanded Taesas take her upon the couch, prizing the feat of despoiling the Duke’s furniture more than the pleasure of the act itself. She was playing the Game, but playing it poorly. Duke Bastien might have been unwell these past few months, but such a slight would never go unpunished. The Comtesse would be socially destroyed. It might take a month or two for the Duke to retaliate, but it was inevitable.

“Mmm, I must say that your reputation is well deserved, Enchanter,” the Comtesse said, rolling onto her back, throwing her right arm lazily across her forehead, covering her bare chest with her left hand with a feigned modesty.

“The pleasure was mine, Comtesse,” Taesas lied. She was rigid and overly enthusiastic. She squealed like livestock and her face contorted in unsightly ways in her passion. “I trust that you will have no issue convincing your husband to think of the Chantry and the Loyalist Mages when he opens his vault in philanthropy.”

The Comtesse snickered and sat up, grabbing her gown off the floor. She stood, quickly stepping inside, pulling it up her legs, over her bare backside and upon her shoulders. “I hope this was more than just business to you.”

It wasn’t. But Taesas stepped behind her, wrapping his hands around her waist and planting a kiss on her neck. He worked his way up, his tongue tracing the curve of her ear as he gently nibbled her earlobe, causing her to shiver. “Of course not, Perrette,” he lied. “My eyes have been upon you since you arrived.”

His eyes  _ had  _ been upon her, but not out of boyish infatuation. She was a target. She had been quietly inquiring about the elf for the last month after catching sight of him at a fete in Val Foret. Perrette was connected, albeit not particularly powerful.. What little influence she had could be turned to the cause, used up and discarded when it ran empty.

She twisted her head, nuzzling the side of her head into him, holding his hands with one while she reached back to fondle him. “You could always push me up against that bookshelf,” she suggested.

She smelled of tuberose, but was heavy-handed and gauche. If she had class, she would have selected a scent of jasmine or even of citrus in the summer heat, but she lacked grace. The stench overwhelmed the smells of dust and old paper that filled the library. It was a room the Duke had not been in much at all since his illness.

Her makeup was so caked upon her cheeks to cover blemishes that at this distance her face looked like a pastry caked in powdered sugar. The gems in her earrings also looked too glassy to be real and Taesas knew that some swindling jeweler had sold her counterfeits. “I’m afraid we’ve already overstayed our diversion, sweetling.”

She groaned with displeasure. “You’re right, of course,” the Comtesse said. “We shall have to do this again sometime, perhaps while my husband is away on business.”

Taesas helped her lace up the back of her gown, tying the strings into a bow in a different shape than she was wearing before. She would never know, because she was fumbling and oblivious. But the more sharp-eyed players of the Game would take note, for sure. “You know how to contact me, always, Perrette,” he said, planting one more kiss on her cheek before sending her out the door of the library. She tasted of bitter powder.

She quickly scampered away, donning her mask at the doorway and returning to the salon as if nothing was amiss.

The upholstery on the chaise longue was noticeable damp. The Comtesse had sweated like a laborer. The chair was ruined, as expected.

He grabbed the two thin braids of black hair from across his temple and tucked them behind his ears. The Comtesse had grabbed the pointed tips of his ears as he supped upon her sex. They always touched his ears. The highborn of Orlais were always infatuated with the taboo. Elves were everywhere. Often abused. But no noble would openly dare to take a servant into his or her bedchamber.

But when that elf was a ranking Enchanter from the illustrious Circle in Montsimmard, the Game changed. The chase became a daring and exhilarating hunt requiring proper, subtle steps and the right type of influence to close the deal. If the dance could be done properly, the pursuit was a trophy. Incorrectly, and it would cause scandal.

There was a cost to dabble in such taboos and the Circle always left the richer.

Taesas straightened the collar on his jacket, ran a hand through his jet hair to smooth and push it back over the top of his head. He snapped the cuffs of his shirt and lifted his mask back to his face. Most elves would never get the privilege to don such finery, but his position in the Circle, his vast connections gave him many opportunities the drudges of Orlais could never dream. He stepped back into the hallway, quickly looking left and right to see if anyone else was there.

There was no one. He was alone, except for shadows, whispers and rumor that were already circulating in the ballroom below. His work was done for the evening. 

Taesas stepped past the trophy room and out the balcony overlooking the west garden. The south garden was the larger and the more impressive with its many flowers, blooming trees and the shrubbery labyrinth with its many, many lovers’ alcoves. It was especially popular during the spring parties the Duke hosted after the cold and harshness of winter’s chill and snow. Many young people intoxicated on the spring air could slip away for a moment to steal salacious words and soft lover’ kisses.

But the west garden had a shimmering pool that reflected the starlight, the slight ripples on the glassy surface causing the points of light to dance and twirl in the water. The few cherry trees were also in bloom, their soft pink petals fluttering down like snow with each gust of wind.

“Take care, my dear,” a deceptively sweet, powerful voice echoed through the hallway. “We shall be seeing each other again soon.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Lady Vivienne.” A man’s voice. Marcher. Eastern accent. Taesas turned his head, looking back through the open doorway.

The man wore sturdy armor, a horn at his belt, a greatsword strapped across his back. He wore no mask, carried himself without the cautious posture of an Orlesian. He was certainly no chevalier. Arriving in the garb of war was a faux pas, but he was clearly not of the court. He wore no signet that Taesas could see, at least from this distance and angle.

His brown hair had been pushed back, the dusting of stubble across his cheeks and jaw. He was not handsome. His cheeks and mouth had a soft fatigue, but his eyes were hard and his brows cast, trying to study and understand. At first glance he appeared to be no one of import. A foreigner, a middling, with no immediately apparent influence.

But as he turned toward the stairs, his left hand lifting slightly for the rail, Tae could see the subtle green glow, the dim, ethereal light slashed across his palm.

The First Enchanter had just made a very, very powerful ally.

She caught Tae’s eye as she waited for the Herald of Andraste to descend the stairs, then slowly glided toward the balcony, her silverite mask shining. He smiled as she approached, leaning back against the railing of the balcony and giving the First Enchanter a slow, quiet clap as she crossed the threshold. 

“I was not aware you were courting prophets born of the Fade this evening,” he said.

“There was word that he was in Val Royeaux, trying unsuccessfully to convince the weaklings that make up the remainder of the Chantry to silence their bleating,” Vivienne said, resting her hands on the balcony as she came up next to him. “I sent an invitation. I honestly did not expect that he would accept it. Fortuitous, but not unwelcome.”

“Always working,” he commented.

She looked at him, shooting one of her frowns of disapproval. “I could say the same about you. I had to take the Herald down the hallway out of earshot of your own encounters, Taesas, darling.”

He rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “You should be the one apologizing to me, Vivienne. I’m in desperate need of a bath after rolling in with the swine.”

Vivienne let a single “ha” escape her lips, quite an uncommon outburst for the stoic First Enchanter. “Oh Taesas, dear, you are a delight.” She smiled, her fingertips lightly grazing his shoulder. It was rare for her to smile, only done in private and very rarely even at that. “Please tell me you didn’t spoil my Bastien’s favorite chair.”

Tae ran his hand across his chin. His face smelled of the Comtesse. The stink made his stomach ill. “It’s quite destroyed,” he said. “I’d purge the whole room with fire, just to be safe.”

Vivienne groaned. “My dear Bastien does love that chair,” she mused, looking off into the garden, suddenly seeming sad at thinking of the aged Duke. He had been bedridden for weeks now, the sickness slowly eating away at him. He had grown so thin and frail, he hardly looked the man who had led the Council of Heralds with such surety, principle and conviction. 

She had spent many of the recent weeks here, in Ghislain, despite the turmoil of the war raging across Orlais. She did not speak of the Duke often. There was pain in her voice, well-hidden, but still there for those who knew how to hear it.

The Duke had been a means for Vivienne to quickly cultivate an expansive field of influence in Orlais. Perhaps at once their relationship had been one of convenience, Vivienne seeking power and the Duke seeking companionship. But Taesas was more aware than others that she did have a genuine love and affection for the man, ancient as he was.

“Sacrifices are inevitable in the war,” Taesas reminded her. “I believe it was you who told me that.”

“Indeed.”

Her ebony skin was a smooth and delicate as ever, softly touched in the gentle moonlight. Vivienne towered next to him, a pillar of power and influence. The royal sea silk upon her dress was pristine without a single crease or wrinkle, the pure white leather rigid and unmarked, the silverite accoutrements upon the collared wings, the gold that ringed the oversized shoulder pieces, the plunging corset that cinched her waist and lifted her breast.

She had come from humble origin, and vaulted to power within the Circle in few short years. She was shrewd, intelligent, powerful and merciless. Tae stood in her shadow, inches shorter but miles below her in her expansive influence. Vivienne consulted directly with the Empress and her will and call alone held together the remains of the Circle.

Taesas loved her. Known, but unrequited. 

Her rebuffs of his advances were curt, carefully worded and planned, delivered with the same polite but stern ruthlessness she exhibited in all matters. Taesas had known she would reject him, not just because of Bastien, but because she was untouchable. He would be a liability, a problem, a weakness in her machine. All this he knew. All this was apparent. Yet he could not shake his admiration and infatuation.

Although other mages called her “loyalist” with disdain, Vivienne wore their ire with pride. The First Enchanter had shown that one could gain much in the Circle if they played by the rules they were given. She was intelligent, beautiful and intimidated by no one. How could he not love everything she was and every ideal she stood for?

Taesas had resolved to move forward with his confession despite the risks. He had no expectation she would acquiesce to his feelings, but for his own sanity he had forged ahead. Vivienne could have easily destroyed him, crushed his standing and set him amidst the bumbling mages and enchanters who did little more than exist in the Circle. 

Instead she had raised him up.

She had not pushed him away since that day two years ago. She had pulled him closer, respectful of his candor and his initiative. They had only come closer, strengthening his longing. She knew, holding those strings and tugging them as she needed.

He freely gave her the control.

Tasesas turned around, resting his forearms across the balcony next to her, stealing a glance down her corset, feeling a longing clench in his groin that he had not felt at all before laying with the Comtesse.

“We’re joining the Inquisition,” Vivienne declared as she stared out into the garden.

There was a long silence before Vivienne slightly turned her head to him. Her face looked as if she was waiting for a response, something that he had not expected of her.

“I must admit, you disarm me, Vivienne,” Taesas said. “I don’t take you as the type to ask for permission. Or approval.”

“I want your opinion.” Her answer was blunt and flat. Was it doubt that he sensed? Or was she merely testing him? If this was merely a move of the Game, he was losing points for every second he delayed. The First Enchanter made decisions and issued commands. She did not solicit opinion.

He hadn’t thought about it much. They had heard of the Inquisition and its leaders. Many claimed the fledgling rebellion was led by a man that many were claiming was the new prophet. At his side were the Right and Left hands of Divine Justinia. The explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes had decimated the Chantry and taken a good chunk of both the Templars and the rebels with it.

“The Chantry can’t protect us anymore,” Taesas said, leaving it at that, not risking exposing any more of himself to Vivienne. Although he served at her will, a learned player of the Game never gave all of himself. Alliances and friendships were notoriously fleeting in Orlais.

Word had spread quickly from Val Royeaux of the way the Lord Seeker had publicly humiliated those who posed as the last remnants of Chantry power and influence.

The Circles had fallen spectacularly. At the first opportunity for mages to decide their own fate, they had done exactly what the Chantry had always suspected they would. They tore each other apart in an orgy of blood, magic and unchecked power. Blood had flowed through the halls of White Spire. A similar massacre might have occurred in Montsimmard, had Vivienne not been there with her iron fist to prevent the mages from doing anything equally as foolish.

Some of the mages, apprentices mostly, had deserted the Circle over the next week, turning escape fantasies into realities. But thankfully no one had been killed and few dared to speak out against Vivienne’s rule.

The few Libertarians in Montsimmard negotiated a peaceful release from the Circle with what Templars remained after Lambert nullified the Nevarran Accord. Almost all of the Aequitarians agreed to stay. Taesas led the small contingent of Lucrosians, but everyone knew his leash was held firmly in the palm of the First Enchanter.

“Marquis Brevere has requested your presence at his summer chateau,” Vivienne said, moving on to other matters, which only made Taesas further question what she had really been prying at. “I told him that you were needed back in Montsimmard, but that I was sure you would make the slight diversion north to visit with him.”

Taesas let a small groan escape him. While the Comtesse had been middling, the Marquis commanded actual power and wealth. Unlike the Comtesse, he was also an extremely skilled player of the Game, one who knew how to dance all the proper steps on the metaphorical dance floor, despite his age and girth preventing him from doing so in the physical plane.

The last time Taesas had made a private visit to the Marquis, they had walked through the Marquis’ extensive gallery, discussing some of the new paintings and sculptures, the portly man’s face flush all the while they spoke. When Taesas had joked that his neck was stiff from craning to observe all the art, the Marquis had his elven servants oil and massage Taesas for more than an hour as the noble sat nearby drinking wine and fanning himself from the midday heat.

The Marquis abruptly excused himself after that, having come down with a sudden and incapacitating case of the vapours. In his stead, he offered the full hospitality of his estate to Taesas in condolence for his unexpected indisposition. He had enjoyed a dinner of perfectly poached eggs, a medium steak so coated in black pepper that it delicately straddled the fine line of brute spice and inedibility and a delightful bottle of 8:97 port from a long-defunct vintner outside Rialto whose later declarations never touched the intricacy and complexity of his pre-Dragon Age bottles.

The Marquis later sent a veritable delegation of his servants, both men and elves, adults, nubiles and pubescent courtesans of both sexes to attend to whatever pleasure or fancy he might desire in bed. By then, Taesas’ head was spinning from the fortified wine he imbibed while reading. He politely sent them all away with many thanks to his gracious host.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a master sculptor awaiting my arrival to carve my likeness into marble for his bedchamber,” Taesas commented. “Although it is your flawless form that the Brevere should be wanting to preserve.”

The First Enchanter was not impressed, although he had not expected her to be. Still, he always liked to proffer a verbal reminder or a small gift of affection from time to time to gauge her reaction and test the limits of her patience. Her response had never been anything he would consider close to warm, but likewise they had never been cold or curt. 

“You can save your flattery for the Marquis, darling.”

A breeze sent rippled across the reflecting pool, blurring the starlight in the water. The leaves of the trees rustled, sending pink petals fluttering to the ground. He could hear the sound of strings as the players picked up again in the main hall after a slight recess. Taesas could feel the taste for red wine developing on his tongue, the need to wash the filth from his mouth.

They stood quietly for a moment, the shadow of the First Enchanter swallowing him as he leaned across the railing of the balcony. Her eyes were looking ahead too, staring somewhere distant, a thousand thoughts likely running through her head.

Somewhere, far in the distance, there was a gaping, spiraling hole in the sky. There had been talk of smaller tears in southern Orlais, but nothing so dreadful so far north in Ghislain. Orlais continued as it always had here, even despite the raging civil war that raged all around them. And here they stood, mages still loyal to the ideals of a Chantry that had been falling to pieces before one spectacular shattering explosion deep in the Frostback Mountains.

Vivienne had thrown their lot in with this fledgling Inquisition. Taesas knew her to be incredibly clever and shrewd, but he couldn’t decide whether her actions tonight were the next carefully plotted move in her grand design or an act of desperation. Her silence made him uneasy. Madam de Fer, the Iron Lady, did not fear and did not falter, or so the court declared.

“So what kind of man is this Trevelyan?” Taesas said to break the silence.

Vivienne didn’t move, her gaze still unfocused far, far away from Ghislain. “I honestly don’t know, dear” Vivienne said. 

“But I do know the type of man I intend to make of him.”


	2. Two

**Two**

The mountains were too damn cold.

The air was cold to the point of being cruel, Vell thought. What kind of Maker would craft a world where the air could be so chill to numb your hands to the point that they burned? Why would anyone choose to live in a place like this? And why would some new army trying to save the world set their base of operations so far up the ass of a mountain? 

But that couldn’t be right, either. The inside of someone’s ass would at least be warm and protected from the wind, Vell thought. Also smelly. She couldn’t tell if the path winding up to Haven smelled, because she had lost feeling in her nose. Ferelden  _ did  _ actually have a subtle wet-dog note as Orlesians often quipped. Also garbage. And dead things and smoke. But she suspected the rot smell had more to do with lingering patches of Blight and destruction from the Breach.

Redcliffe hadn’t exactly been some summer home along the Antivan coast, but at least in the valley her nipples weren’t stiff to the point of being painful. She hadn’t brought a coat. Aside from the inconvenience of having to kill her way out of White Spire, it was summer when she left Orlais. Summer was a season when it was supposed to be sunny and warm. She didn’t know what Maker-damned season this was in Ferelden, but it was somewhere between winter and suicide.

The Fereldans wore thick, fur-lined boots. The dainty, Orlesian slippers she had stolen from a dead merchant’s cart that was burning alongside the road did less than nothing to keep out the cold of the snow. She would have liked to sucker punch one of the Fereldans and swipe his boots, but there hadn’t really be an opportunity trudging in a column of her peers up the sloping mountain path.

Vell couldn’t feel the tips of her ears anymore and she had lost feeling in her cheeks and lips about an hour ago. She snorted to herself at the thought that maybe if she lost the pointed tips of her ears to frostbite, people might mistake her for a human. Still probably not, though. She was too tall and lanky to pass as a human woman, her hips so straight and narrow that her body reminded her more of a prepubescent boy than it did a grown woman. 

The Maker surely was an evil prick. Not only had he made her an elf  _ and  _ and a mage, but he didn’t even give her a pair of tits. That might have at least provided some amusement while drudging her way through the misery she called life. But no, she was forced to walk around with a staff on her back, two pointy ears on the sides of her head and a chest that was as flat as a board.

The Lady Seeker kept looking over her shoulder every two minutes, checking the column of mages plodding up the path behind her and the Herald with his fantastic, glowing palm. Of all the men Vell knew, this Herald was the only one who used hand for something other than self-gratification. 

The Seeker turned her head again, glaring down the line before turning her gaze back in front of her. What was she expecting to see? Mages tying each other down to stone slabs and committing blood sacrifices to appease some demons? Vell was from Val Royeaux, not some backwater Chasind village deep in the savage wilds. Although the way Orlesians tore each other apart sometimes, perhaps the Chasind were the more civilized.

“If she fucking looks back here one more time,” Vell growled under her breath to no one in particular, but loud enough that any of the other mages around her was sure to hear her.

“Watch your tongue,” came the harsh, hushed admonishment next to her. Grand Enchanter Fiona was at her side. Vell hadn’t seen her approach. In fact, she hadn’t seen much of her since Redcliffe at all. And, of course, here Fiona was at the worst possible time. Fiona was the one mage whose attention she  _ didn’t  _ want to catch. “And be glad we are not making this trek in chains.”

She was right, of course. 

Vell tossed her head to the side, flipping the long bang of hair that had blown across her right eye back in its place. Her once-coal-black hair was now a mismatched rainbow of colors. After her escape from the Circle, she had stolen dyes from a merchant who was hawking textiles in Lydes and roughly dragged them in long, colorful streaks through her short hair. Her hair did look like shit now, she knew. She had smeared the red over most of the right side of her head. The yellow was too strong and had bleached the part on the left side of her head where she pushed all of her hair right. But she was enjoying the thin slashes of green, indigo and purple that wrapped around her left ear and behind her head.

She didn’t really care how it looked. The point was that she had been able to do it. If she had attempted such desecration of her head in the Circle, her teachers would have had her sent to have her head shaved bald until she could learn how to properly wear her hair again.

The Grand Enchanter’s souring presence made Vell cross her arms over her chest and stick her hands deep into her armpits to try to keep them from going numb too. “I’m sorry, Grand Enchanter,” Vell quickly and half-heartedly replied.

The Grand Enchanter was probably equally miserable, although she hid it better. Her dark hair was frazzled at the ends and her green eyes looked drawn and heavy. She at least had gotten a heavier robe like the Fereldan mages wore, with fur-lined cuffs and what looked like some padding to it.

When Fiona fell into step next to Vell, she regretted the bad luck. She didn’t hate Fiona so much as she just strongly disliked what the Grand Enchanter was.

Fiona had done a good job rallying the mages Thedas-wide to realize it was time to stop taking the shit the Chantry shoving down their throats every day. It had taken one exploding Chantry, one bloody brawl in White Spire and one Tranquil knifed to death in the Circle, but it had been enough. That part was all fine and good.

And they were also both mages, both elves and both Orlesian, true. But Fiona was  _ Orlesian _ , while Vell was just Orlesian by virtue of having grown up within the Empire’s stuck-up borders. There were  _ Orlesians  _ who wore masks and danced in frilly dresses, said cryptic shit that didn’t mean what they were actually saying and played some stupid “Game” that didn’t have any rules or winners, from what she could gather. Then there were Orlesians who kind of sat below all the porcelain, head-in-the-clouds people and wondered what the fuck was going on up there and why. Vell was certainly of the latter.

Vell had to admit to herself she didn’t know anything of the Grand Enchanter’s past, but she would wager heavily that it didn’t involve scraping through the slums of Val Royeaux, picking pockets just to stay alive. Fiona probably didn’t have a father who slaved on the docks at day and a mother who plied a very different type of trade on the docks at night. She probably didn’t have parents that took their meager wages and instead of buying food or clothes, use it to buy Dust they’d snort up in a frenzy and then sit around the house with glassy, dazed eyes while their four children were left to run around the gutters finding their own meals.

Fiona probably grew up in some noble’s house. Sure, she was probably raised as a servant, but Vell would bet that she had a bed and clothes and food and parents who loved her. She probably spent her childhood pilfering cakes and cookies out of the kitchen for fun, not because if she didn’t pinch something she wouldn’t eat all day. She was probably an investment, a little pointy-eared girl who would grow up and become a valuable servant just like her mother. She had probably romped around the garden with the little girls of the manor and carried some stuck up lady-in-waiting’s handbag as she went shopping at the market looking at dresses and shoes and jewelry and stupid shit like that.

Being a mage was much better than being an urchin, Vell had thought when she first arrived at the Circle as a child. That had eventually degraded to thinking that being a mage was only slightly better than being an urchin. After a few years, she often wondered if getting knifed in a back alley in her teenage years might not have been a better alternative. 

All but one of the kids she had run with in the alleys were either dead, in jails or otherwise missing from the streets. She knew. She had looked and asked. Only Eleran was still around and he was missing a hand. He said he lost it in “the war,” but he had always been a filthy liar and she knew he had crossed someone with a lot more money and power than him in the slums and had paid the price for it.

Now, Vell was supposedly free, but she didn’t feel any less caged than she had in the Circle. And it was fucking cold now, too. She remembered she had Fiona to thank for that.

Fiona had plunged the mages into a war, which was, of course, fine. Vell had been itching for the fight since she became a teenager, waiting to stick her flaming fist right up the Templars’ collective asses. She had recently gotten to do that, several times, figuratively, though she was still waiting for the right opportunity to do it literally, too. She wore six earrings in her left ear now, one for each Templar she had killed. She collected the earrings wherever she could, stealing them from others, collecting them off dead bodies in the burned out towns and she had even used money to  _ buy _ one. She jammed the small metal pins of each one through her ear, ignoring the pain by remembering the greater look of agony on the Templar’s faces as she ended their lives.

The problem with Fiona was that, like most  _ Orlesians _ , she was great at talking. Then when the shit started flowing all over the streets it quickly became apparent that she wasn’t so good for much else but talking. It was nice to rally all the mages to rise up and fight for their freedom. But then there was the realization that there were two or more Templars for every mage. Then the Templars went off-leash due to Lambert, which meant the bulky, sword-wielding pricks didn’t have to follow any rules about proper treatment of mages. And then, on top of that, walking into a town with a staff on your back was likely a good way to get the average, bigot townsfolk to come out of their pathetic hovels with shovels and pitchforks and stones.

All of that got topped off with the realization that they hadn’t even got  _ all  _ the mages. The Loyalists didn’t break and join with them. And then there were plenty of Isolationists who just threw away their staves and ran off to the furthest town or forest that they could find, pretending that they weren’t even mages any more.

So as the rebels - as everyone deemed them - were spectacularly getting decimated in the war, Fiona, being  _ Orlesian _ , decided that they need a powerful ally. And since  _ Orlesians _ didn’t know anything except how to kiss the asses of other nobles, she sold the entire crew into slavery with Tevinter. But not just Tevinter, no, some crazy fucking Tevinter cult bent on transcending the normal world into some kind of godhood. Vell would have thought that anyone would recognize that the notion of obtaining godhood was a psychotic idea, but apparently Fiona’s head was so far up the clouds she missed that one.

“This is not what I had intended,” Fiona continued as she walked next to Vell, their feet trudging up the sharply sloping path zig-zagging into the mountains. “But I think this opportunity is a blessing from the Maker, one that we do not deserve.”

“Better than the alternative,” Vell said, pulling her hands out from under her armpits, rubbing them together and blowing what little hot breath she had left into them. She quickly stuck them back under her arms.

Vell wished Adrian was here. She led the Libertarians at White Spire, and while she was still pretty far up there as far as being  _ Orlesian _ , she at least had her head grounded some of the time. And she was constantly pissed about something. She wouldn’t be walking here claiming miracles and trying to put a smiley spin on everything. She’d probably be shooting fire at the snowdrifts just to try to claim vengeance against the bitter cold. Vell smiled a little bit at the thought of building a snowman when they arrived at Haven, just so she could then blow its head off with a fireball. That could count as “training,” couldn’t it?

Cassandra turned her head again, looking down the column and the smile washed off Vell’s face as she shot daggers back up toward the Seeker. The Right Hand of the Divine wouldn’t notice her. But she did it anyway.

Fiona saw the glaring. “The Herald told me that many of his retinue were not happy that he allowed us to keep our freedom,” she said, her eyes looking up at Trevelyan, who was walking just before Cassandra but had not looked back once. The large, two-handed sword was across his back. He wasn’t a mage and had no reason to trust or believe in them, but he did, for some reason. “The Seeker most of all. Commander Cullen was also not pleased. So we should be grateful that Trevelyan followed his heart and not the guidance of his closest advisers.”

Vell didn’t want to get into it, but she couldn’t help herself. That was her way. 

“We’ve traded one slave-owner for the next.” 

She deliberately used the term. Vell had no illusions that, despite being a mage, being an elf in Tevinter would have made it so she never really gained any standing, even as the Venatori had promised they would after a long, hard, indentured term under the magisters. Vell had pointy ears. Having pointy ears in Tevinter meant you were a slave. Simple as that.

“As I said, it is not what I intended,” Fiona said sharply. She was high in the sky, but the Grand Enchanter could have a fire and a fierceness when she needed. Vell had to remember that she was a Grey Warden, once. And, from the stories, used to be quite a bitch too. Vell would have liked her much more if she was still a bitch now. “But I think now we are on the right side of things. With the Inquisition, we can help close this Breach and fight off the demons that plague this world. While now the people despise us, maybe after this they will at least acknowledge that it was our powers that helped set things right again.”

Vell snorted. “Except for the part about mages blowing up that Chantry in Kirkwall. And blowing up the Temple of Sacred Ashes and killing the Divine.”

Fiona’s eyes did grow fiercer now. “There is no proof that it was a mage who is responsible for the Breach.”

Vell shrugged. “Looks like magic. Smells like magic. Mages are going to get blamed. Doesn’t matter who actually did it.”

Fiona’s lips twisted and then the Grand Enchanter turned her gaze forward. Vell smiled inwardly at that. Fiona wanted to disagree, but knew she couldn’t.

And the  _ Orlesians  _ always thought they’re so damn smart.


	3. Three

**Three**

The gilded gates of Marquis Brevere’s villa swung open without a noise.

The servants bowed their heads, averting their gaze to their feet as they had been taught to do when treating the lord’s guests. Taesas strode past them without a word or a glance, stepping up the marbled lane toward the front entrance of the home. The Marquis protected part of Orlais’ northern border with Nevarra, but this particular property was a residence of pleasure, not of duty. The villa was tucked well off the main road, snaking up a wooded path into a secluded stretch of land that was bathed in golden sunlight. 

The villa overlooked a modest vineyard, also owned by the Marquis, of course. The white stone wall that surrounded the property was decorative instead of defensible. The villa had just a small stable within the gate, home to a few of the lord’s horses with few empty stalls for visitors. Brevere did not entertain many here, least of all his lady wife. Rumor around the court was that he had told her she would never step foot inside. And to Taesas’ knowledge, she never had.

Taesas swung down from his horse, a snowy white Ghislain courser he had taken straight from the Duke’s personal stable. A servant quickly stepped forward the grab the reins and lead the well-trained beast to the stable.

The stone walls and red-clay tiled roof were all in pristine condition here. There were songbirds, birds not native to these parts of Orlais and obviously imported, singing in the expertly manicured trees and hedges. The air smelled of fragrant incense that was being burned somewhere on the grounds, filling the entire compound with a sweet, pleasant air. The entire complex was a lesson in Orlesian opulence, as well as Orlesian discretion. Despite it’s glamor, this was a small holding, one meant to be kept far away from prying eyes and listening ears.

The villa was so far away, that as the front door opened and Marquis Brevere stepped out to meet his guest, he did so without his mask.

The marquis was aging, closing in on his fiftieth year. His golden hair was thinning in the middle, but still delicately curled along the sides and in the back. The mustache and trimmed beard were showing signs of grey and there were wrinkles in his face that not even the weight that rounded his face and smoothed his features could hide any longer. His second chin had grown larger since Taesas last saw him and he was breathing heavily already despite just descending the few small steps.

The marquis was very short and quite round. His stomach bulged over the golden and jeweled belt that was tightly cinched at his expansive waist, his legs quickly moving like twigs in white hose underneath the bulk of him, all of that balanced precariously atop small feet. The ivory-accented walking stick in his right hand moved effortlessly alongside him despite his labored steps. His eyes were emerald and alight with joy as he moved to greet his guest.

“Enchanter Taesas!” the marquis delighted between labored breaths. “I am so glad you could make it. I was worried you would not be able to divert from Ghislain. I am honored, as always, to host you.”

The marquis grabbed Taesas’ hand, squeezing it firmly between both of his hands, the walking stick deftly tucked under his right arm in one motion. The marquis was a man who had practiced every word and every movement for all his life. Even here, in the privacy of his pleasure house, the marquis could not completely shut off the Game.

“No, Marquis Brevere. It is I who am honored, as always, for your gracious invitation.” Taesas said, lifting the Marquis’ hand and planting a gentle kiss upon the large, golden signet ring upon his right hand. The kiss made the marquis shiver and jiggle with delight. Brevere inhaled sharply, his cheeks becoming flush.

“Maker, it is unseasonably warm today,” the marquis declared, fanning himself with a hand. While it was a sunny, summer day, it was actually slightly cool for the season, Taesas thought. But it was not the sun that had warmed the marquis, despite the fact that he wore long sleeves and long hose in heavy, rich fabrics.

“Quite,” Taesas lied. “Uncomfortable almost to the point of being unbearable.” He waved his hands before him, a small plume of frosty air springing into being in his palm, a ball of cold air and soft snow that he conjured between his two hands. He ran his hands over the ball of magic as if if shaping clay into a sphere, then gave it a gentle toss up into the air. The white ball floated upward a few feet above their heads before it broke apart, sending a gentle flurry of snow over their heads.

The marquis smiled widely, his eyes alight with wonder as he held out his hand to catch a few of the snowflakes in his palm. “Oh my,” Brevere said with a slight shiver at the burst of cool air. “I will forever be mesmerized by your talents and abilities, Enchanter.”

They were simple parlor tricks, meant only to amuse. The spells were a waste of good mana. But, like most of the nobility, the marquis was not interested in Taesas’ true talents, only the simple spells meant to delight and entertain. The magic was pandering, but pandering was what Taesas had learned to do best among the court. 

“Please, Marquis Brevere, there is no need for such formality with me. If I’m not mistaken, we’re quite alone here, yes? I am humbly at your service and you may call me Tae.”

The marquis flushed again at such informality, a large snowflake falling just down upon the tip of his nose, causing him to chuckle. His face looked as if he were remembering being five years old again, playing outside in the snow. “Only if you agree to address me as Antone.”

“Of course, Antone,” Taesas said with a respectful dip of his chin. He lifted his hand toward the door. “Shall we?”

The marquis snapped to attention, his large, puppy-dog eyes blinking as if he suddenly remembered something very important. “Oh yes, of course, of course! Please, I wanted to show you the latest improvement to my humble home.” Brevere began to scurry forward on his tiny legs and Taesas fell into step beside him, matching his speed and gait.

“Perhaps humble in spirit, Antone, but your villa is the epitome of tasteful wealth and style,” Taesas said. There was never too much flattery for the marquis, even compared to many of the other nobles who swallowed the lavish praise greedily. There, indeed, was nothing humble about this home.

“Oh, you are always a pure delight, Enchanter… I mean, Tae.”

The central courtyard of the villa was their destination and it had changed dramatically since Taesas’ last visit. Where once the courtyard had been filled with perfect rose bushes and a large and expertly sculpted statue of Emperor Drakon as a centerpiece, all of it had been removed. The courtyard was now the site of a very large pool, the water crystal clear and rippling in the sun. The stone around and inside it was all black and white marble, the edges ringed in gold.

Some smaller statues had been put at each of the corners of the large, rectangular pool, very tasteful busts of females nudes. Each stood in a different pose, each clearly sculpted by a different master artist.

But Taesas was honestly impressed by the magnificent pool due to its absolute impractibility. The villa rested atop a hill and there were no nearby sources of easily accessible water in the area that he was aware of. The only way to fill such a pool would be to carry many buckets or barrels in, but even then after time the water would dirty and need to be replaced. Many nobles attempted large pools in their chateaus and many had found them to be more of a source of embarrassment when the water grew cloudy or, worse, began to host mold or algae.

“It is really quite marvelous, isn’t it?” Brevere said proudly. Taesas didn’t think he was gawking, but perhaps he was viewing it too wide-eyed. The marquis was an expert in the Game and would pick up even the subtlest of body movements. “I only recently found out that there is a freshwater spring that runs very close to the surface. I had met this quite interesting dwarf at a recent fete in Val Royeaux, Doran Baeleric, whose family had been among the best builders and engineers in Orzammar before some falling out with the Assembly that forced them topside. You know how the dwarves are, their politics are even more cutthroat than the Empire, I think sometimes.”

Taesas smiled, as was expected at the marquis’ witty observation. He did not know as much of dwarven society as he should, but he suspected that no one, not even the ageless families of Orzammar, played the Game quite like Orlais.

“I brought him here and asked his opinion on the matter,” Brevere continued. “Before the sun set he had several pages of rather genius drawings on how not only to build the pool, but how to use the natural pressure of the spring to feed the water in without any effort at all. And further that, he devised this brilliant mechanism to drain and recirculate the water so that it never spoils. Would you believe me if I told you I haven’t needed to have this cleaned since it was first complete two months ago?”

It was rather impressive. Taesas wondered how much good gold was put into the dwarf’s hands for his labors. The price was no doubt incredible.

“It is remarkable, Antone.”

The marquis lifted his hand, beckoning Taesas to the pool. “Please, Tae, you must try it out.”

And so they quickly came to the purpose of his visit. Taesas had not known what, but he had expected that there would be something, made as a polite and proper request to veil its true nature as a demand. This was not an offer the elf would be able to turn down. The expectations were clearly stated in the marquis’ voice. Whatever he had paid the Circle to secure the visit, this was the purpose the marquis had in mind.

“I would be honored,” Taesas acquiesced and began to disrobe.

He carefully handed his staff to the marquis and then began to unbutton the long robe he wore, carefully working each of the golden buttons between his fingers. After each loop, he carefully pulled the cloth open wider and wider, allowing his muscled chest to slowly expose from underneath as slowly and steadily as a sunrise. He pulled his arms from the sleeves as the top was unfurled down to his navel and then let the garment slide down his waist and legs. Taesas stepped out of the garment, picking it up and quickly folding it, placing it carefully near the edge of the pool.

The marquis was quivering with anticipation, his eyes quickly darting over Taesas’ nude, muscled form. While most mages only focused on strengthening the mind, Taesas took equal care to exercise his body. He had petitioned and been granted leave to undergo physical training with the Templars of the tower. He had engaged in the martial arts, hand-to-hand combat as well as some light arms and armor. The Templars trained with sword and shield and he had modified their training to accommodate shield and staff. He had studied some of the histories of both the Knight Enchanters of the Circle and the Arcane Warriors of ancient Arlathan as a guide.

The years of physical training with the Templars had toned his physique as much as any elf could. He lacked the bulk and strength of an equally-trained man, but his muscles had obtained similar definition and power. What he lacked in the brute strength of a human, he could supplement with the grace and fluidity of the elves and the power of his magic. Taesas was unlike any other mage in the tower in that respect.

It was that chiseled form and strength of body that had made Taesas so desirable among the nobility. While he often wore robes and other garb befitting a mage of the Circle of Montsimmard, many at the court knew of the body that lie beneath it and desired it. The chase and the prize at the end were the very essence of the Game. Many nobles of the court made the necessary, careful steps and bandied the correct influence to claim it.

Marquis Brevere was no different in that respect. Taesas stepped forward, down the wide steps into the pool. The marquis carefully placed the staff down and scurried to a padded chaise at the poolside as he lay on his side to observe the spectacle before him.

The water was surprisingly warm as Taesas submerged himself, rolling onto his back and slowly pushing with his arms and legs, his body floating atop the surface. The sun sparkled atop the water, reflecting bright golden light off each ripple as he swam away from the steps. The marquis was quietly observing, his fingers pressed over his lips, perhaps to keep his jaw from falling wide open.

Taesas rolled in the water, turning over his strong shoulders and back toward the marquis as he took several long, slow, freestyle strokes across the pool until he reached the far end. He grabbed the edge before planting his foot against the wall and pushing off to retrace his route in a backstroke, keeping his chest and hips up as close to the water’s surface as he could.

The marquis watched silently, fanning himself in the heat as Taesas whizzed around the pool in various strokes and speeds, always mindful of how his body displayed in the water. The marquis did not care if Taesas enjoyed the pool or the swimming. He only cared about the show.

“The pool is magnificent, Antone,” Taesas said as he tired of the farce after many minutes, slowly treading his way toward the wall where the marquis sat. He placed his arms atop the deck, tightening his shoulders as he pulled himself slightly out of the water.

“I’m glad you like it,” Brevere said, motioning Taesas toward the stairs.

Instead, he planted his palms on the deck and pushed himself up, letting his chest and arms flex as he lifted himself out of the pool, letting the water wick off his body. He lifted his left hand, balancing on his right arm as he quickly turned his back the marquis, planting his rear upon the edge of the wall into a sitting position. Taesas arched his back slightly and shook his head to try to toss some of the water from his hair before he pulled his legs out of the water, standing.

He lifted his arms, running his fingers back through his long, dark hair and shaking more water out of it as he stood nude before the marquis. Brevere’s breath was caught in his throat, his eyes wide and unblinking. Taesas smiled, just slightly to himself at seeing the marquis so disarmed, before Brevere snapped to attention, grabbing a towel. “Please, sit,” Brevere offered, standing up off the chaise.

Taesas did as he was bid, taking a seat on the long chair as the marquis began to softly pat the towel across his wet body, drying him. His hands were so timid, almost afraid to touch at each time he brought the towel down, softly patting and rubbing the cloth against the elf’s skin.

“I have recently negotiated a new lyrium contract with the dwarves in Orzammar,” Brevere said as he continued to dry Taesas. “The price has increased slightly, but I was able to negotiate nearly double the supply they had previously been shipping.”

“It sounds like another deal well done,” Taesas said. The marquis’s fingertips brushed lightly across his shoulder before he resumed with the towel, patting down Taesas’ back.

“I will be sending it all to the Circle, free of charge,” Brevere said, the towel wrapping around as the marquis placed his hands just above Taesas’ hips. The marquis bent low, taking a quiet, but not unnoticeable, inhale to draw in the elf’s scent.

The news was quite unexpected, Taesas thought. Lyrium was a very pricey venture and for the marquis to simply give it away to the Circle would be ludicrous. The notion struck Taesas the same way it might have if the marquis said he was going to be investing heavily in the alienage in Val Royeaux. “That’s incredibly generous, Antone, but surely you cannot be serious.”

The marquis chuckled as he waddled around to the other side of the chair, to Taesas’ front. He sat down on the chaise next to the elf and began to pat his chest dry with the towel. Taesas leaned back slightly, placing his hands behind him to push his chest outward for the marquis. 

“I have more gold than I know what to do with. The cost is no issue,” Brevere said. “But I must admit, this ‘Breach’ they speak of gives me terrible indigestion. Other nobles might dismiss it, but they would be foolish. If there are demons falling out of the sky, we will need fighters. I can think of no better investment than in the Templars and mages who remain loyal to the Chantry.”

Taesas wondered how the marquis already knew that the Loyalists would soon be joining the fight. It could have been coincidence, of course, but Marquis Brevere was too well-connected to stumble upon the truth by accident. Perhaps Vivienne had known long before the salon that she would join them to the Inquisition? “Still,” Taesas said, opening his legs slightly as the marquis moved to the towel lower to dry his thigh, “It is most generous.”

The marquis stopped, letting the towel fall across Taesas’ thigh, his hand placed cautiously on top of the fabric. “I cannot bear to think what might happen if this Breach is not stopped soon,” the marquis said. “I must admit, I weep at the thought of what might happen to the Maker’s most beautiful creatures if nothing is done.”

The marquis’ hand drifted up, his fingers falling upon Taesas’ chest, tracing the lines of his firm pectoral muscles. Brevere moved his hand, Taesas sitting still below his touch, until he rested his palm across the center of the elf’s chest, feeling his heartbeat.

Brevere looked up to Taesas, fear, anticipation, permission all running through his eyes as he looked upon the Enchanter. “I would be heartbroken if anything were to happen to you, Tae.”

Taesas closed his eyes and slowly inhaled, letting his shoulders relax as he leaned back a bit more onto his arms, pulling his legs slightly more open and shifting his hips toward the marquis in open surrender. Brevere’s hand began to move again, his fingers slowly running over the ridges of his abdominals, crossing the equator of his waist until his fingers lightly came to rest around Taesas’ manhood. Taesas exhaled slightly, slowly, audibly.

The marquis curled his fingers around, slow strokes up and down. The chaise creaked, the cushions shifting as the marquis moved, his great girth changing as he scooted toward the foot of the chair. The marquis pushed open the mage’s legs, Taesas feeling the tension in the cushion as the noble lowered himself, his lips wrapping around the tip of his manhood.

Taesas released another slow breath and a low, pleasured moan. The Circle had sent him here to play a part and he had to act his role. He had done it dozens of times with many different members of the nobility, playing the role they wanted him to play. Taesas served the Circle and the demands of the Circle had always been great.

In his mind, he pictured Vivienne. The First Enchanter slowly peeled away her rich robes, lifting the mask from her face, removing the imposing hennin from atop her head. Her ebony skin was pure and flawless, her immaculate curves and perfectly round breasts. She knelt on the floor before him and took him in her mouth. The First Enchanter would never kneel, he knew, making the fantasy all the more arousing as he dreamed the warmth and wetness of her mouth as she took him, the way her tongue flitted around his stiffness.

She would wrap her hand around the base of his shaft, her other palm pressing against his thigh as she looked up to him. “Take me now, Taesas, darling.”

His hands would guide her, laying her down, his fingers brushing across the wetness between her legs, her body quivering in anticipation. He could feel her long, ebony legs in his hands, her knees bent and wrapped around his elbows as he spread her, thrusting deeply. Vivienne would cry out, vocalizations of her pleasure, long denied and never fully embraced.

Her moans growing louder, her sex tightening, hands upon his hips pulling him deeper and faster, thrusting, her sex pulsing, his pleasure building, a tension through his groin, her muscles clenching around him, squeezing his manhood tightly, her screams of delight filling his ears, the ecstasy too much to bear as he exploded.

Taesas groaned, his mouth twisting and his eyes clenching closed as pulse after pulse reverberated through him at the pinnacle of orgasm. His chest heaved, his heart racing and breath coming in short spurts as the blissful agony coursed through him.

His fantasy faded, evaporating quickly as a slight, gagging cough coming from the marquis between his legs reminded him where he really was.


	4. Four

**Four**

Vell slapped his face.

“Just do it already. It’s fucking cold out here,” she said.

Her right leg was lifted, the heeled boot planted firmly against the narrow window sill. Her back pressed firmly into the corner where the two walls met. She had lifted her robes up to her waist, exposing herself. This man had been game for the idea of sneaking out of the tavern and giving her the pumping she desired, but he was obviously getting cold feet about the idea.

Vell was feeling warm, but that was the effect of the many glasses of wine and shots of liquor she had downed. Her head was spinning and whatever inhibition she had before was gone. But even still, she could feel the icy mountain air creeping up her bare legs.

The soldier, at least she thought he was a soldier, pursed his lips, clapped his hands and began unlacing the front of his pants. He moved awkwardly, closing in, his manhood poking around and looking for the right spot. Vell knew she wasn’t in the ideal position standing like this, but she wasn’t going to give this fool her back and she sure as fuck wasn’t going to lie down in the snow. If he wanted it as bad as he said he did just minutes before, he could deal with an odd stance.

He slipped inside of her, a profane word slipping out of his mouth. The soldier wasn’t nearly as large as he bragged. He had done a lot of talking inside the tavern, but he was showing much less than promised.

He slowly moved back and forth, his jaw gritting tightly as he grunted with each thrust, his hands fumbling over her clothes to grab at her tiny breast.

“Come on,” Vell said, frustrated at his pace. “I thought you said you knew how to use that thing? I’m going to fall asleep.”

Typically emasculating a man in the middle of sex wasn’t the best method to improve his performance, but Vell didn’t care about this soldier. She didn’t even know his name. He wasn’t even that good looking. But he had talked a lot, she had drunk a lot and there was a need for celebration. She was free.

That, and the mages and the Herald of Andraste had  _ sealed  _ the fucking Breach today. 

If that wasn’t cause to get drunk and sleep around Haven, Vell didn’t know what was.

The town was, of course, colder than the foothills had been. Haven was miserable, so any distraction was worthwhile. For the first time in her life, she didn’t have Templars breathing down her neck. She could drink a whole bottle of wine just because she wanted to. She could stick her tongue in whoever’s mouth she wanted.

The soldier increased his pace after the insult, sliding his arm under Vell’s lifted leg and placing his other hand against the wall to brace himself as he thrust harder and deeper. Vell closed her eyes and let slip a quiet moan. She reached forward, grabbing his hair and forcing his head down into her neck. His lips locked onto her as he slammed his hips forward, burying himself as far as he could go inside her.

She pressed her boot harder into the windowsill, tightening the muscles in her legs and hips, increasing the tension throughout her groin. “Yes,” she moaned, her fingers gripping and pulling on his greasy, black curls. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

The soldier groaned, his head gave a jerk and shudder and his hips stopped suddenly. His breath was heavy, heaving as he began to withdraw.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Vell groaned, banging her head lightly back against the wall. She gave him a hard shove to his chest with both hands and he nearly tripped over his pants, which were still pulled down around his thighs. “That’s it? That’s  _ it?” _

The soldier was lacing up his pants. She couldn’t tell if he looked stunned, embarrassed or proud of himself. His face just looked stupid as he fumbled with the strings. Vell dropped her leg, slightly stiff now, from the windowsill and let the robe fall back over her legs.

“Take that pathetic prick of yours and get the fuck out of here!” Vell shouted, letting fire flare to her fist and sending the soldier scurrying away, still trying to adjust his pants as he wobbled away.

She let the fire at her hand extinguish and shook her right leg, trying to work the stiffness out of her thigh muscle. That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all. The night was still young. She could try again. Vell needed more wine.

“I guess that one didn’t tickle the bits the right way, huh?”

Vell looked up as the other elf came around the corner of the building. Her blonde hair was cut rough and crooked, the black kerchief around her neck, her red dress roughly patched, the mismatched yellow plaidweave pants she wore looking just as threadbare. She was a regular in the tavern. Owned the place, or so some said.

“You’d think he never used the thing before,” Vell said, crossing her arms over her chest and slumping back against the wall.

The elf chuckled. “Probably hasn’t. This Inquisition is made up of half stuffy Chantry choir boys and the other half dumb shites to stupid too realize we’re getting into a friggin’ war,” she said. She lifted her hand, in it a half bottle of bourbon. She shook the green bottle a little, offering, the liquor sloshing around in it.

Vell took it and gulped down a large swig, the bourbon fiery down her throat before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and passing it back. The elf had been drinking just as hard as anyone in the tavern, cursing much louder than anyone else and chipping in jokes so dirty they sent some people running out with sour looks on their face.

“That’s why I’m enjoying tonight, before we’re all dead tomorrow,” Vell said.

“Hope we got more than one more night before we’re all dead,” the blonde elf said. “I was just starting to have fun.” She tipped the bottle to her lips swallowing two large gulps before pulling the glass down and blasting a loud belch.

“But the Herald sealed the Breach,” the blonde elf said as she passed the bottle back. “So I guess maybe it’s all over now. Everybody pack up and go home, yeah?

“Hope not,” Vell said. “Outside of the cold, this is the most fun I’ve had in years.” She tipped the bottle and took another gulp, spitting as she struggled to force it down. The fire was cutting right down her throat and she could feel her stomach twisting in protest.

Vell bent over and coughed, spitting again to try to rinse the bourbon off her tongue before she spewed. Everything felt like it was spinning. 

Then she heard shouting. And bells ringing. So many bells. Loud bells splitting her head open. Vell tried to straighten back up, wobbling a bit on her feet.

There was a man’s shout that boomed over the din of bells and shouting, a commander’s battle voice carrying over the noise. “Forces approaching! To arms!”

“Shite,” the blonde elf said as she stepped away from the tavern, looking up the mountainside at the blinking lights of torches in the hands of soldiers cresting the hills.

When Vell had said they’d all be dead by tomorrow, she hadn’t actually considered the possibility that they would actually be dead by morning. She could see the bobbing lights too, hundreds of soldiers coming over the mountainside. Nobody would march an army over the mountain -- not up the road -- in the middle of the night in the bitter cold just to come have tea with the Inquisition.

Her stomach felt ill and Vell jammed her fingers down her throat, gagging, coughing as she elicited the liquor up her throat. She turned her head, a forceful wave of vomit spewing between her lips into a small shrub. All of that wine and liquor burned twice as bad as it came back up, acid forcing its way through her nose as the brownish-red vomit came pouring out.

As she forced the last bit out, Vell coughed, her eyes watering and her nose burning as she wiped the remaining chunks, bile and spit from her lips. She stood back up, taking a deep breath and sniffing to try to stifle the burning. Her head was pounding from the stress of forcing liquid through it, but her stomach at least felt somewhat settled. She scooped some snow into her hand and stuffed it into her mouth to cleanse her palate.

“There,” she said, folding the snow into her other cheek as the icy coldness numbed her tongue. “Much better.”

Vell sprinted toward the front gate, passing several of the townsfolk and camp followers who were heading for cover in any of the buildings and the Chantry. Soldiers caught in the middle of their revery were quickly strapping on armor and sword belts, grabbing shields. Mages were pouring out too, staves in their hands as they marshaled toward the gates.

Vell fell in with the rest of the mages, faces she didn’t even recognize as they formed lines near the gate. Just under the archway, Trevelyan stood with the Seeker and Commander Cullen, each of them exchanging quick words as they stared up the mountainside. Trevelyan pulled his blade and headed off down the path, the Seeker in tow behind him.

The Commander pulled his sword and turned back to the gathering lines of soldiers and mages.

“Mages! You…” he hesitated as he looked at the rows of robe-wearing, staff-carrying men and elves. He was a Templar, through and through, so the next words out of his mouth must have felt like someone kicking him in the balls. “You have sanction to engage them! That is Samson. He will not make it easy.

“Inquisition! With the Herald! For your lives! For all of us!” The Commander turned toward the slopes, lifting his sword high into the air, pointing to the approaching army. As they grew closer, Vell could see it was an army of Templars, although they appeared different, their bodies covered in red, glowing crystals. Some appeared misshapen, hardly human, if she could see from that distance. Her vision was slightly blurred, but aside from the flaming swords of Andraste on their armor and shields, she might have thought it was an army of monsters.

The army commanders began to break the soldiers off into groups, shouting orders, pointing and directing them toward different rendezvous points around Haven’s weak palisade. Grand Enchanter Fiona was before them now -- Vell hadn’t noticed her before -- barking orders.

“These are Templars, so you know what to expect,” Fiona was saying. “Support the soldiers. Engage the enemy as they grow close, but do not pursue away from the walls. Whatever happens, don’t let them into Haven.”

Vell burped quietly to herself, another pulse of hot bile creeping up her throat, though she caught it and swallowed it back down before it grew any worse. Her arms were tingling with the excited pulse of battle to come. She had felt so powerful, so liberated as she threw fire down the narrow corridors of White Spire, burning through the Templars in her bloody, fiery escape from the Circle that had imprisoned her.

She had engaged in a few skirmishes with Templars in Orlais and the Hinterlands, nothing too brutal. But her count of dead Templars had hit a half dozen after the last fight and she was itching to add more to the pile. “Come on,” she said to herself, opening herself to the Fade and letting the mana flow into her. She could feel the flames creeping down her fingers, balls of fire forming in her palms.

There were many mages here, all drawing on the same arcane energies that she was having trouble focusing to pull her own mana. As they separated, it should get easier, she knew, but there was plenty of power to go around. The gaping hole in the Veil that was once the Breach had let so much power bleed into the physical world that there would be no shortfall of energy here for any of the mages.

The ether felt so raw and wild, an energy source waiting to be tapped. It was unlike anything Vell had ever felt in the Circle where everything was tested cautiously, done scientifically and under watchful eyes of Templars ready to choke off the connection at the first sign of trouble. Since being freed from the Circle, Vell had probed the limits of what she could really do with magic. The power she had just barely fingered made her giddy.

Some of the mages were breaking off with the groups of soldiers, but Vell made sure to stay still right where she was. If the enemy was coming, most would be coming straight for the gate. And that’s exactly where she wanted to be, right in the thick of it all.

“Here they come!” Commander Cullen shouted, lifting his heavy shield at his side and hoisting his sword. “Inquisition! Prepare to engage!”

The Red Templars came sprinting and screaming, armor and swords and shield like normal. But they also had parchment-dry skin stretched tautly across bones, blood-red eyes and glowing crystals jutting from their faces and bodies. Then there were others that were twisted beyond recognition, pale-fleshed monsters with hunchbacks, hands warped into long, bony claws.

Vell cracked her knuckles, leaving her staff across her back and letting the magic flow into her hands. She loved the feel of power as it pulsed through her fingers and palms. She rarely used the staff, preferring not to have to wrap her hands around some rod just because the Circle told her that’s what mages were supposed to do. A staff could help an initiate focus, but she found greater harmony with her gift by letting it flow openly into and through her.

She rubbed her palms together, pulling the mana through her and conjuring flame between her palms. She placed the heels of her palms together, thrusting her arms forward and opening her hands like a set of jaws. The red flames rolled into a ball between her fingers. She exhaled slowly, a feeling almost like arousal running through her as she uncorked her power.

“Move!” she shouted as the soldiers in a line before her. They all looked like young, skinny humans with armor that looked too big and too heavy for them to wear. They all wore freshly-forged Inquisition gear. A veteran would be wearing his own stuff.

They turned their heads, spotting the broiling ball of flame and quickly stepped to either side, opening a window between their ranks for her. Her eyes stared down the barrel of her arms, watching as the Templars drew in closer and closer, their ranks closing as they prepared to funnel in through the gates. She wondered if she should start a new tally for these Red Templars. It wouldn’t feel right to chalk up all her kills with the regular Templars she had crushed before arriving at Haven.

“Eat this, you fucking Templar pricks!” 

The magic erupted off her palms, the flaming ball zipping past the Commander and out the gate, crashing into the tightly-packed Templars, shattering in a fiery explosion.

The smile crossed her face as the first few Templars flailed around, burning, trying to extinguish the magical flames that embroiled them. Through the smoke and flames, countless more marched forward over their burned and dying brethren.

“Inquisition!” Cullen shouted, his lion’s helm pulled down across his face. “Charge!”

The soldiers lurched forward and while most of the mages hung back, Vell was right behind them, her boots crunching down into the snow, her eyes wild and her tongue nearly flapping out of her mouth like a dog eyeing prey. The Templars and soldiers clashed, many of the poorly-trained Inquisition youngster falling in the first collision.

A black fog rolled off around her, the sickening magic miasmic flowing around her in a ring. She pulled the energy from the Fade, letting it run wild and chaotic inside her as she siphoned out the entropy and spread it around her. None of the teachers in the tower specialized in the school and there were few texts on it. The Circle regarded it as too close to darkspawn and blood magic to be trusted, which is exactly why Vell had latched onto its study. She remembered the look of horror in the Templars as she inflicted them with the black magic as she and others battled their way through the hallways of the White Spire to freedom.

The Red Templar stepped over the body of the dead soldier and raised his blade to strike. Vell ran forward, her left hand swiping sideways to disorient and stagger him, her right hand pushing a weakening spell into him that caused his arms to drop and the sword to fall from his crippled fingers. By the time she was on top of him, she already had a ball of flame in her left hand again, which she pushed into his chin and let it fly forward, melting the steel helmet and everything inside it in one fierce blast.

Another rushed forward and she quickly eyed his head, forcing the black magic into his skull, pressing the mana down like a bludgeon shattering his resistance. The Templar grabbed the sides of his head, his mind paralyzed with an imagined horror. She moved so fluid, her fingers tracing the pattern of a hex to shatter his resistance as she prepped another fireball, pushing the flames into his gut and letting the ball of flame shatter and explode through his abdomen separating his top from his bottom.

She had been running the entire time, outpacing the rest of the soldiers and she stopped, digging her heel into the ground and lifting her palms out in front of her, firing blast after blast of fire forward one after another, moving her wrists just slightly, her drunken eyes darting from side to side, tracking and attacking each new Templar as it came up the hill. Some were too slow to avoid, Vell tickled with joy as others spilled to either side to get out of the path of the fire. The charred and smoking bodies fell before her, blackened corpses dropping into the snow, steaming as they made contact.

Vell doused the flame, drawing in more and more energy, letting the power of the Fade roll through her as she loosely formed the spell. She looked ahead, eyeing the ridgeline and pointed with the index finger of her left hand, watching as flames erupted up from the ground as she painted a wall of fire across the field to choke their advance.

She only realized then that she was laughing, a loud cackling as she spilled her powers onto the battlefield. This was the type of reckless power and destruction the Circle had preached against. They had advised careful and cautious practice, supervised and safe. Magic was meant to serve. Mages, if ever needed for war, were there to help and support and follow orders.

But as Vell belched flame against her enemies, she knew all those lessons to be false. Magic was a gift, not a curse. It was a godly power that coursed through her, she rained death out of her fingertips, even against Templars who were trained specifically to kill her kind. She had no intention of using her gifts to terrorize those who didn’t deserve it, but upon her enemies, there was no need for caution or restraint.

There was a great whoosh, a stone from one of Haven’s trebuchets flying up and over the battlefield toward the mountain. The giant stone hit the mountainside, rocks and snow sliding down the slope and burying a chunk of the approaching force in an avalanche.

Her eyes were wide with excitement watching the snow bury their enemy alive, following the glorious avalanche.

“Haha!” Vell laughed as she eyed down another charging Templar as she weakened his legs, the warrior falling as she pushed up fire from underground to blast him high into the air before his chest could touch the ground. “Is that it? Is that the best you can do?”

In answer, there was a roar, a screech and a giant, black shadow gliding overhead. She turned her head -- that couldn’t be a dragon, right? -- only to watch the great winged beast spewing red, crackling energy down upon the trebuchets and the outer wall of Haven. The dragon beat its wings, the force of air slamming down on the soldiers in the field as it moved toward her, its maw alight with red energy.

_ “Oh shit,”  _ she thought as she dove forward, diving underneath the magical breath that burned in a line right through the area she had occupied just second before. She could feel the cold bite of snow between her fingers as she pushed down to jump back to her feet.

“Fall back! Fall back!”

Vell couldn’t really place the shouting, her ears were ringing from the roar of the dragon as it swooped down over her. Her robes were wet as she got back to her feet, looking around as the Inquisition soldiers flooded back toward Haven’s walls.

“Come on, there’s no time to waste!” It was Grand Enchanter Fiona, near her, the mage’s golden staff drawn and swirling with light around the head. The Grand Enchanter was splattered with blood, but she didn’t look hurt. She stood in the middle of a ring of bodies splayed out around her. “Hurry!”

Vell looked up into the sky, the dark wings beating and the dragon banking and turning to make a return over Haven. While she was confident in her abilities, she wasn’t  _ that _ confident. Vell started running back toward the gates, all of the Inquisition retreating as horns blew out warning tones. Fiona was behind her, ushering others back toward the gates as Vell approached the wooden walls of the town.

“Move! Move! Fall back to the Chantry!” Commander Cullen was shouting, his bloody sword in hand as he waved everyone inside. His eyes were looking down the path toward the trebuchets where the Herald had gone.

As she came back inside the gate, it was only then that she realized Haven was burning. While they had engaged the Red Templars in front of the walls, the town must have been surrounded on all sides. The palisade had been breached and soldiers had spilled inside, crossing blades with Inquisition forces and indiscriminately killing the townsfolk and camp followers who could not fight.

She instinctively ducked as she heard the whoosh and felt the shadow creep over her again as the dragon swooped across the town again. She could feel a spike of fear in her chest, her blood running cold and her body tightening up like a cornered animal. She swallowed, panting, as her eyes darted around the town. The Chantry was on the far end and there was plenty of bloodshed between her and her destination.

She turned over her palms, fire blooming in each as she bolted up the path. There were bodies of women and children littering the path, dead Red Templars, Inquisition soldiers and mages too clogging the walkway. She hurdled a dead elf and his wooden staff and came before a soldier battling off a Red Templar who was slashing ribbons into his armor. The young soldier lifted his shield and caught another strike, his sword wobbling in a weak retaliatory strike as the Templar pressed and cut another chunk out his pauldron.

Vell closed her left hand into a fist, extinguishing the fire and quickly flooding that hand with entropic energy. “Templar!” she shouted to get its attention, just long enough as she hurled the black ball forward, the magic paralyzing the Templar just for a second. The young soldier hit it with his sword, the steel blade digging into the armor but not deep enough to be fatal.

“Move!” Vell shouted, hoping the kid was smart enough to get out of the way as she threw the fireball in her right hand, crumpling the Templar to the ground in a molten heap. She came up next to the soldier, a young man with strawberry-blonde, curly hair and shoved him in the back. “Go! Go! Get the hell out of here!”

He snapped back, nearly stumbling over his feet as he ran toward the Chantry.

There were more and more Red Templars flooding over the walls and through the breaches in the palisade. Vell quickly looked as soldiers who were still fighting, trying to cover their retreat were slowly being overwhelmed. She threw a hex out in the direction of one fighter fending off a pair of foot soldiers with a two-handed blade before he cut one down and then turned on his heel and bolted back toward the Chantry.

Haven was lost.

Vell backpedaled, her heel hitting a body behind her, another mage, as she looked up at the dragon making another loop over the frozen lake. As it turned its gaze toward the town, she turned, put her head down and sprinted back toward the church. The Chantry, for the first time, would be a place of salvation for her.

“Get underground!” the red-haired women in purple and ringmail shouted and pointed toward the open door where everyone was rushing toward. Vell fell in, her lungs burning as her feet quickly chopped down the stairs into the underground corridor filled with the worried murmurs of the rest of the Inquisition who were bottled up and backed into the corner. There were some soldiers who were sitting on the ground, taking time to tend to wounds for the first time. Children were screaming and crying, babes hugged close to their mothers as the stones of the Chantry rumbled around them.

There was one fighter whose hands were loosely pressing a gaping wound in his flank, blood dribbling between his lips. His skin was pale and deathly, his teeth biting his lips, perhaps realizing he wasn’t going to survive. Vell didn’t study any healing magic and couldn’t have helped him even if she wanted to.

Vell held her hand on her stomach, a pain in her gut that she was just feeling now from the exertion, over-exertion, of the fight. The Chantry rumbled again as if the church was struck by a boulder, sending up a new wave of worried cries and screams. She looked around. Men. Elves. Mages. All backed into the Chantry. All gathered and ready to be culled.

The enemy would come for the Chantry. If the dragon couldn’t shatter the stones of the building, the Red Templars would soon beat in the gate. If that was the way they would have to go out, Vell wanted to go out free. She wouldn’t be killed huddled in a corner with pathetic townsfolk to scared and weak to fight. The Circle had taken her life away once. If she was going to lose it a second time, she wanted to lose it on her terms.

She began pushing her way through the crowd, back toward the stairs upward where she could join the others she was sure would want to make a last stand. But before she could get there, the Grand Enchanter was on the steps, her hands above her head, shouting for quiet. Even as the Chantry rattled a third time, the cavernous underground corridor quieted.

“There is a way out!” Fiona shouted. “A path, through the mountains. We are going now. We can make it if we hurry. Follow me!”

There was a noise, it couldn’t be called a cheer, but an explosion of worried chatter and shouting as the group surged back toward the stairs, the Grand Enchanter leading the way up. Vell got caught up in the tide of bodies moving up, eager to escape the burning remains of Haven. Even in the thick of the bodies, she could see the confident walk, the gleaming staff of Fiona leading the way just ahead of them.

And despite her feelings for the Grand Enchanter, Vell followed, once more.


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

The demon shattered into a burst of greenish light that was pulled back into the nexus of the rift.

The swirling, shifting green-white hole bobbing off the side of the road pulsed and vibrated as it sucked back in the last of the energy it had spewed forth to give form to the demons. Taesas turned his head, his brows bent as he watched the shifting mass and reached out toward it with his sixth sense.

“Matteo, help Jolene,” Taesas ordered without moving his gaze. The young Templar had been burned by one of the rage demons and she was now cradling her raw arm. The more senior officer would be able to protect her if another wave came through the rift.

Taesas could feel the limitless energy just on the other side of the hole, the fumes of the Fade leaking like poison through the gash in the Veil. But the edges of the rift felt stable, for now, as the energy receded in. This one was still weak, spawning shades and a few smaller rage demons. It had been no trouble for the vanguard to clear it on its own.

The rift crackled, a blink of white light as the greenish edges spun and contracted, spikes of darker, blackened fade energy crystallizing through the window into the beyond. Taesas exhaled, letting his shield drop at his side as he stood out of his defensive crouch. He spun his staff, pressing the pointed, spearlike end into the ground. “We’re clear,” he said to the others, who also shifted in relief. “Report.”

“Two wounded, none dead,” Matteo shouted as he looked over the younger Templar’s burned arm. “We shouldn’t need to delay.”

Taesas walked over toward the Knight Lieutenant, an older man whose beard was now more white than it was brown, several streaks of grey running through his pushed-back hair. He was quietly talking to the girl, barely old enough to have taken her vows and her lyrium. She was his daughter, though they had been separated for years by their duty. That was, until the Chantry fell and she had come to Montsimmard to join her father.

“You have to be more careful,” Matteo was saying as Taesas approached, pointing toward the girl’s burned arm. She extended it toward Taesas and he examined it. It was a surface burn, enough to cause a serious level of discomfort but nothing that would impede her use, even if untreated.

“I know, papa,” she said, her reply a mix between cordial acknowledgment and annoyed frustration.

Taesas let the healing energy flow to his hands as he carefully ran them just above her singed arm, watching as the scorch marks were cleansed and the raw flesh repaired. It was a simple task and within a few seconds he had managed to repair the arm. “Turn your stance a little more to your right and bring your shield further across your chest, and you’ll be fine,” Taesas said.

Jolene smiled, twisting her right arm and looking at the magically-healed flesh. “I will,” she said. “Thank you, Master Taesas.”

Matteo shot an exhausted look at his blushing daughter before stepping in front of her to Taesas’ left side. “I’ll make sure the rest of the column is prepared to move.”

They were a day off the Ferelden border, although their progress had slowed significantly the closer they came to the Frostback Mountains. The Breach had formed over the Temple of Sacred Ashes deep in the mountains and it seemed that the rifts were growing more numerous the closer they approached. Demon sightings were much more common and they had passed several small villages that had either been destroyed or abandoned. There were few travelers on the road and it had not taken long to see why. They had just cleared their third rift of the day and it was hardly past lunch. They had battled demons at two rifts the day before.

Taesas, nor any of the other mages or Templars in their column had the ability to close the rifts, but they had found that if they were able to batter the demonspawn spilling from them, the rifts would at least quell for a time. He had broken down their column into a vanguard including many of their best fighters to travel a few hundred yards out before the main host, which included the Tranquil, apprentices and less useful fighters.

He had returned to Montsimmard from Marquis Brevere’s estate to find a letter from Vivienne awaiting him. It had arrived two days earlier, marked for his eyes only. Matteo, being the ranking Templar left in the Circle, had kept it carefully under key until he returned.

_My dearest Taesas,_

_There has been an attack. Our enemy, who calls himself the ‘Elder One’ swept down on the Inquisition base at Haven and quickly overwhelmed the settlement. We managed to escape the massacre due to the actions of the capable Herald Trevelyan. But the attack has revealed precisely how weak and tenuous this Inquisition is in its current state._

_To a point, I don’t believe the Loyal Mages are safe in Montsimmard any more. With the civil war, the weakened Chantry and the emergence of this Elder One, I need you to get everyone out of the city immediately._

_We have arrived at an abandoned fortress called Skyhold, deep in the Frostback Mountains. The Inquisition is rebuilding here and the castle is stalwart, if not in a deplorable state of disrepair. We should be safe here, for a time._

_I await your arrival at Skyhold. Be watchful for demons and these so-called Red Templars in servitude to the Elder One._

_With warmest regards,  
_ _V_

There was a single dot of ink below her solitary initial and Taesas had rubbed his fingers across the blank space on the page, infusing a bit of mana into the paper. As his fingers brushed across, a bit more written in invisible ink showed up.

 _The Herald_ recruited _the malcontents to his cause, despite my protest. I was nearly gagged with rage when the word arrived. Now this Trevelyan is indulging the possibility of even more recklessness and foolishness from our rebellious kin._

_I will need you immediately upon your arrival, no matter the hour. We will need to stem this madness before it grows worse._

_With love,  
_ _Vivienne_

Taesas, as the de facto leader of the Loyalists in the First Enchanter’s absence, had set the Circle to preparation, gathering supplies and equipment to travel east. Anything and everything that could reasonably be taken with was packed, loaded and prepared to move. As their carts, mages and Templars walked out of the gates of the Circle, Taesas looked back and wondered when they might be able to return.

They would return, that he was certain of. With Vivienne at the lead and the Inquisition to back them, they would surely be returned to the Circle once the world was set right.

The wind blew across the roadway, lifting the long, white cape he wore pinned to his shoulders. The center of the decorative cloth was emblazoned the symbol of the Circle of Mage in burgundy. The cape was clipped into the spaulders he wore at his shoulders, tied into the thin chestplate. The padded indigo wyvern leather stretched down his arms and under the bottom lip of the breastplate into a dangling fauld. He wore metal bracers at his wrists, the tall boots he wore were plated on the front side.

Marquis Brevere had commissioned the set for him a year ago after Taesas had described his needs and drafted a rough sketch of what the armorers would need to develop. It was rare for mages to wear any type of armor, even rarer for mages to wear any sort of plate. But Taesas had trained extensively for years with Templars. He was not only capable of wearing the heavier garb of war, he was one of few mages in the tower who knew how to use it properly on the field of battle.

The large metal round shield he held in his left hand was the statement of the armor. It was larger than the kite shields the Templars carried, but it was lighter, forged with flexible wood and thin, enchanted metal coating the surface of it. The silverite shield was ringed in aurum, and, like the cape, the symbol of the circle emblazoned in the center in red steel.

He was forbidden from following the path of the Knight Enchanters of the Chantry, like Vivienne or Commander Helaine. Few texts remained recounting the arcane warriors of the Dalish, mages who utilized both the melee arts as well as magical technique. The Chantry had purged too much of Dalish history and lore, much to the lose of all mages.

He had been Dalish. Once. But like the Chantry, he had purged that culture from his personal history, as well.

Although the Chantry forbid study of the magic of the Dalish, the libraries did have countless volumes of demons. He had poured through volumes of demonology, studying accounts of the fierce Revenants, pride demons that were often found occupying the bodies of ancient elven warriors in the burial chambers of old ruins. He had extrapolated on the academic writing of the scholars and mixed that with the practice of what the Templars of Montsimmard could instruct to create something that was entirely his own. He was sure there was no other mage in any Circle of Thedas that approached warfare quite like he had.

Prior to the rebellion, he had never had an opportunity to put his skills to the test on the true field of battle. But the thousands of hours he had put in the training rings with the Templars had been adequate preparation. As they battled these demons along the road, he found them to be quite wanting. The Templars’ centuries of study in anti-mage and anti-demon warfare was well-honed.

“You were terrific in the battle, Master Taesas,” Jolene said timidly, her cheeks quite pink. “The way you dispatched those demons was amazing.”

Taesas recognized that look. Her eyes gazed too widely, the color in her face betraying childish infatuation. It was a look he saw often at fetes, salons and balls in Orlais from the young courtiers, girls who were not adequately trained to play the Game. The girls had nothing, no power or influence, only a pretty, youthful face that they did not know how to use to their advantage yet.

“Thank you. I owe much of my talent to your father’s patient instruction,” he said. “There is much you can learn from him, still.”

She was just a girl. She would profess aloud that she didn’t want to grow up to be her father. But behind that facade, it was everything she sought to aspire to. Taesas was not afraid to remind her of it. “Make sure the column is ready to move,” he said to dismiss her.

“Yes, Enchanter,” Jolene said with a respectful nod and quickly walked away, her head down and turned to the side as she passed her father, who was returning.

“My Jolene looks embarrassed, like she just made a fool of herself in front of some crush,” Matteo said.

“I’m doing what I can to turn her admiration toward a more deserving recipient,” Taesas said, pointing to the Knight Lieutenant.

“Good luck with that,” Matteo said. “We’re ready to move. No delays.” The Templar brushed his hand across his bearded mouth, rubbed his hands together and clapped once. It was a personal habit, one he done since the day they had met years ago. “How’s the armor?”

“Good. Flexible. The best money can buy, or so the Marquis told me,” Taesas said.

“Lucky. It took me four weeks to get the Chantry to get me a pair of new pauldrons when they promoted me,” Matteo said, tapping the large, metal pauldrons jutting up from his shoulders. “That was two years ago and these things are still stiff as all hell. Chantry thinks it’s some kind of honor to wear extra metal up here. I’d kill to go back to those leather spaulders the recruits wear.”

“You’ve been using that excuse about your shoulders ever since I knocked you upside the head with my staff during sparring,” Taesas teased.

“And I’ve never been quite right since then, mind you,” the Templar said shaking a finger. “It’s bad enough that you learned how to swing that staff like a real weapon without me having to always be on guard for the magic stuff too.”

“You know I haven’t used magic on you for two years, per our agreement,” Taesas said. They had been sparring in the tower and Taesas had caught a slash on his shield. As he brought the head of his staff around, he had wrapped it in force magic. The strike hit Matteo in the side so hard it broke his left arm and threw him across the training room. He had agreed to restrain himself in the future to prevent future injury. His melee had gotten good enough that he didn’t even need the magic to push the senior Templar across the floor any more.

The accidental blow to the head he had given Matteo had been inconsequential in comparison. If Taesas had put magic behind it, he might have broken the man’s skull.

The demons had been far easier to dispatch than Matteo. The shades and rage demons were brutish and predictable. They did little to defend themselves, relying on their horrific nature and ferocity of their attacks to overpower. But when their prey didn’t fall to their long claws, they had little else to fall back on. One of the rifts had spawned a few lesser terror demons, which presented more of a challenge as they phased through the ground and popped up across the battlefield. Even Taesas had to admit his blood had chilled when they let out their paralyzing shrieks, explosive waves of fear that emanated off their spiky, wiry bodies.

They had lost five fighters to the terror demons, three mages and two Templars, the most casualties of any of their battles. Taesas had separated one in half when he had hit it with force while it was attempting to phase. The top half sheared off against the ground while the bottom half, he assumed, was lost somewhere in the Fade. Another he had been able to pin down with a crushing prison before freezing and shattering it.

They just had a few more days on the road and he expected they would meet some of the Inquisition patrols soon. At least he hoped the Inquisition had been able to secure the main roads and maintain safe travel. It’s what he would have done if he was in command.

“I can’t get used to the feeling of those rifts,” Matteo said as he looked over his shoulder at the glowing sphere that bobbed off the side of the road, still stable and dormant. “It’s not like any magic I’ve felt before. Makes you wonder what kind of mage is capable of making the Breach.”

The swirling scar in the sky had come into view a day past. From initial reports Taesas had heard, what he saw looked significantly different from what had originally been there. There was no sick greenish light pouring out of it, no shards of the Fade falling through like meteors, no lightning and thunder as it crackled and grew. He had assumed that the Inquisition had been successful at closing it, although the wound in the sky made him wonder whether it was a permanent fix.

The energy from the rifts was so wild and chaotic, unstable. The fluctuations in the ether made it difficult to concentrate. One of the younger mages had lost control of his abilities in one of the first battles in Orlais and was on the edge of falling to possession had a Templar not been nearby to sense his distress and cut off his connection across the Veil with one sharp burst of anti-magic.

After that scare, he had swapped out most of the mages in the vanguard for more Templars, hand-selecting the mages that would join them to only ones he knew had stalwart concentration and control of their magic. He had also sent a decree through the column that no mages should be using magic outside of battle or emergencies.

It had definitely taken a mage to cause such disruption in the balance between Thedas and the Fade. No one else could have launched such destruction, even by accident. Whoever this Elder One was, he had incredible powers.

“I’ve had a few opportunities to explore the Fade, but it has never been so wild,” Taesas said. “I believe the rifts are more chaotic because they are in an unnatural state here. The Fade cannot exist in the physical in the same way the physical form cannot exist in the Fade.”

That had only happened once, the Chantry taught, with results that were arguably as disastrous as the state of the world right now.

“And this Herald is capable of closing those things?” Matteo asked.

“Those are the rumors, yes,” Taesas replied as they began down the road again, the elf turning his head to look behind him to see the wagons and others lurch into motion as they all began moving.

“Better make sure he doesn’t bite it out here, then,” Matteo observed. “And he went and recruited the rebels?”

“Those are also the rumors, yes,” Taesas said. He had shared that information with Matteo, a close friend and confidant. He knew he could trust the Knight Lieutenant with that information. _And you’re concerned about what will become of the Chantry,_ Tae thought.

On cue, Matteo continued, “Makes you wonder what will become of the Circle,” he said, predictably. “Sure, friends and allies are in short company now with bigger things to worry about. But when everything’s set right and there’s a new Divine on the Sunburst Throne, what then? Do we just go back to mages and Templars killing each other?”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, Matteo,” Taesas said. He allowed himself a small smirk. “I’d hate to have do something embarrassing like kill you in front of your daughter.”

Matteo chuckled. “Maybe I’ve been holding back on you these past couple years, just in case it comes to that, Tae.”

“For your sake, I hope that’s true,” Taesas said with a laugh.

Matteo laughed too, ran a hand through his beard, rubbed his palms together and clapped. “Shit,” he mused. “I really hope it doesn’t come to that some day. All this killing each other has been pointless enough as it is.”

_Now this Trevelyan is indulging the possibility of even more recklessness and foolishness from our rebellious kin._

The words ran through Taesas’s head once more. The Herald was no mage, yet he had sided with the mages and was now indulging the rebel’s cause even further. There was always danger when non-mages tried to dabble into the arcane. In Ferelden, he still questioned why Warden Mahariel had not followed through and annulled the Circle there. With demons, abominations and blood magic rampaging through the tower, it was foolish not to.

And Warden Commander Caron in Ferelden had chosen to recruit the runaway mage Anders into the order at Amaranthine instead of handing him back over the Templars, where he belonged. The soldier’s foolish judgment had cost the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall her life, as well as countless others killed in the rebellion that washed through the city.

Taesas had read accounts of what happened in Kinloch Hold during the Fifth Blight and mulled it over. If such madness had taken root in Montsimmard, what would he have done? As the Templars marched through the halls with the Rite of Annulment in hand, would he be able to stoically accept that fate? Would he give himself up for the shortcomings of all his other kin?

It was the heart of why the rebels were so reckless and dangerous. The actions of one mage had the power to ripple and affect every other mage. The fool Warden Anders had proven that. The schism was that dangerous. Even if the rebels did somehow claim victory and remain independent of the Chantry, how long would it last? How long until they did something so vile and dangerous that the Chantry was forced to act?

Freedom could not be obtained. They might remain free for a time, but eventually Thedas as whole would turn against them. An Exalted March would be an inevitable outcome to trample them into dust.

“The First Enchanter is at the side of the Herald,” Taesas finally said. “If anyone can help a non-mage understand how dangerous magic can be and how paramount responsibility is in its practice, it is she.”

“I hope you’re right,” his friend said.

Taesas did not need to hope. Vivienne would get it done. Failure was not an outcome the First Enchanter would entertain.

The Circle couldn’t, wouldn’t be broken.


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

The books looked too new compared to the dusty and faded wooden shelves of the library.

The Inquisition had a new castle, a new leader and a monumental task in front of it. Of everything that needed to be done to stop all-out war in Orlais, track down Grey Wardens and close rifts that were belching demons into the world, of course the mages had thought the biggest priority was to get books.

Considering how soon it was after Haven was destroyed, Vell assumed most of the books on the shelves had to be trash that booksellers in Ferelden were looking to offload for cheap. And of course the Grand Enchanter had wanted to talk to her here, surrounded by the stink of dusty paper and rotting leather. There were towers, gardens, walls overlooking dead drops hundreds of feet into the valley and snowy mountain slopes bathed in unfettered sunlight. And Fiona wanted to meet in the dim library, with the incessant squawking of ravens on the third floor echoing through the entire central spire.

Vell had considered ignoring the summons. What could the Grand Enchanter want with her, anyway? Probably wanted to sit down and give her a lecture about all the fire she had tossed around the battlefield at Haven and reckless misuse of magic and responsibility and blah blah blah. Be more careful in the future and review this boring book by Enchanter Such and Such about theory of magic that will make you want to claw your eyes out.

Still, her feet had carried herself up the spiraling stairwell. Her head was still thumping a little bit from the several pints of ale she had drunk last night, and the couple glasses of wine and that one cup of Marcher something or other that had tasted like mint mixed with horse piss. She couldn’t rightly remember which part of the night was real and what was dreamt. There were some clips of memories including punching a singer in the face, pissing out a window on the second floor of the tavern, rutting with a darkspawn on the roof of the inn and being crowned the Queen of Antiva. She assumed a few of those events had to be imagined.

Fiona was sitting in a leather armchair near the window, where long white rays of midday light were leaking in. She turned the page, lifting her eyes as she saw Vell approaching. She closed the book and motioned to another chair that was nearby. 

Vell pushed a hand through her rainbow hair, pushing through a couple knots. She lifted the tail of the long leather coat she had managed to procure from the quartermaster. She let the long-sleeved, black jacket hang open, floating down behind her. She had ditched her robes for a pair of pants, some knee-high boots and a top with squared sleeves at the shoulders and a plunging neckline that exposed more of her small chest than would ever be considered appropriate at court in Orlais. She could see in the way Fiona’s eyes tracked her movement that the Grand Enchanter disapproved.

“Vell, thank you for coming,” Fiona said as she slid the book back onto the shelf, dusting off her hands.

“What do you want?” Vell replied curtly. It was probably more brusque than she needed to be, but she wanted to get the lecture over quickly and try to steal a midday nap before another long night of drinking.

Fiona frowned at the reply, curling her lip at the blatant disrespect, but continued anyway. “An opportunity has arisen. The Inquisition was contacted by a group of researchers from the Mages Collective.”

There was a pause as Fiona looked at Vell, who shrugged. Fiona sighed, shaking her head as she placed her fingers on her forehead. 

“It’s apparent that you don’t think much of me or anyone of authority in the Circle, Vell,” Fiona said with her eyes closed in an annoyed tone. “But let’s pretend for a little bit that we’re actually a lot smarter and more cunning than you give us credit for. I know you have had extensive dealings and connection to the Collective during your time in White Spire.”

Vell might have recoiled with shock, but she didn’t want to give Fiona the pleasure of seeing her caught off guard. She had found out about the Collective early in her career in the Circle. A group of apostates that operated safely outside the confines of the Circle. They policed themselves, avoided Templar gaze and delved into magic and experiments the Chantry would likely deem heretical. She had once tried to arrange for an escape, but her contacts in the Collective had advised against it. Too costly, too dangerous, too many variables of things that could go wrong. She had been disappointed, but not discouraged.

There was an older Templar, Gerald, who had a sick wife, two young children and a growing taste for lyrium. He had worked as a passthrough, sending notes and contraband between the few Circle mages who were connected and the Collective. In exchange, the Collective always made sure he was paid well and received extra doses of the lyrium he needed.

“So?” It was the only thing Vell could think of to say without digging a bigger hole for herself.

Fiona dropped her hand from her forehead and chuckled to herself. 

“So?” she asked herself. “I find that amusing. Did you think that Gerald went unnoticed? Every piece of correspondence that landed in his fingers ended up on my desk for my review.”

That would explain why Vell didn’t get responses to some of the notes she had sent. “So I talked with the Collective. What of it?” 

She had intended to try to contact them after escaping White Spire, but she had so much Templar heat on her tail for the first couple days that she had been forced to fall in with the other escapees. That had landed her mixed in with the rest of the rebels and she never had an opportunity. Orlais was too volatile for any mage to travel alone.

“The Mages Collective has engaged in study of the Fade rifts that are popping up all over Ferelden and Orlais. They are trying to discern whether there is a way to close the rifts without the mark that is only held by Inquisitor Trevelyan,” she said. Fiona leaned forward and lowered her voice slightly. “They are also studying the raw power of these rifts and discovering that perhaps there are more efficient ways for mages to tap into the power of the Fade.”

Vell raised an eyebrow. “Bitch Seeker and Commander Templar approved of that?”

Fiona sat back in her seat and pented her fingers, smiling. “They were told as much as they needed to hear. The Inquisitor thinks that finding additional ways to seal the rifts is worth a glance, despite the protests of Seeker Pentaghast and Commander Cullen.”

Vell thought for a second that she almost liked this devious version of Fiona.

“The Inquisitor has agreed to send a small detail of mages to meet with the Collective and broker an agreement for an exchange of information. If they share whatever knowledge they uncover, the Inquisition grants them protection and future promises to protect them from the Chantry,” Fiona said. “Since you already have connections with the Collective, I want you to go.”

Vell didn’t exactly relish the idea of leaving the safety of Skyhold, its well-stocked tavern and its sprawling tent city filled with strapping men for traveling along the road. “Do I have a choice?”

Fiona’s smirk receded and she again got a serious look on her face. “I suppose. If you would rather stay, I can find someone else,” she said. “But there are other reasons I want you to go.”

Vell raised her eyebrow again. “And those are?”

Fiona chuckled. “I am not blind to your recent exploits around Haven and Skyhold. I hear more than enough. I saw you on the battlefield at Haven. You’re wild and reckless.”

“Thank you,” Vell said.

“That’s not a compliment,” Fiona said with that exhausted look in her eye again. Vell smirked and shrugged.

“You wanted to escape the Circle. Letter after letter you write about oppression, the insufferability of the Circle, your longing to be free of White Spire,” Fiona said. “You are free now. What have you done with it?”

“Well, I’ve fu---”

“You’ve done nothing,” Fiona interrupted before Vell could get any further. “This freedom is temporary. Depending on how things play out here, what happens next will determine whether we get to stay free or whether we’re dragged back to the Circles,” Vell was about to interject but before she could, Fiona already perceived where she was going, “Or we can all be put to death for trying to resist. Every action we take will be taken into account. We  _ lost  _ the war. Now our only hope of survival is to prove to this Inquisition that we deserve our freedom.”

Vell hadn’t really considered the larger scale. She had been more concerned with enjoying each day. Every day might be her last. Haven had nearly proven that. More than ever, she wanted to take advantage of her freedom. Death or return to the Circle, they were the same outcome to her.

“Do you know how I came to the Circle as a child?” Fiona asked. It was a harsh transition, no pause, just a question tacked onto the end of her last statement.

Vell leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “No.” She didn’t really care either.

“I was purchased as a slave by a wealthy Comte. There were servants who toiled around Comte Dorian’s manor, washing, scrubbing, seeing the needs of the house and guests. But I was raised as a pet. The Comte would beat me when he felt like working out the hatred he had for his wife or the frustration he felt when a business dealing did not turn in his favor. He would violate me whenever he pleased. I was no older than ten years.”

It was not the story Vell had expected to hear and this time she could not swallow down her surprise and shock. Fiona’s eyes were locked in, boring into Vell as she continued.

“When I discovered I could use magic, I burned Comte Dorian. I bathed him in fire, his arms and legs flailing as I listened to him scream in terror as I killed him,” Fiona said. “His wife, she called the Templars. The Templars could have killed me there, a mage, who had just murdered a wealthy, influential noble. No one would have thought twice about it. I was a slave, an orphan elf. As far as society was concerned, I did not even exist.

“Instead, they took me to the Circle. I don’t know if it was compassion, mercy or pity that made them do it,” Fiona said. “I was so filled with hate and rage that I was blind to everything else. It was not until I begged the Wardens to take me, that I freed myself of the Circle, that I gained perspective on my life.”

Fiona leaned forward, placing her hand on Vell’s knee. It was a light touch that could be almost motherly, if Vell had had a mother that had done things that could be considered motherly. The Grand Enchanter’s voice softened. “I want you to find that perspective in your own life,” she said.

Vell wanted to slap her hand off her knee, to tell the Grand Enchanter to go fuck herself and storm back off to the tavern for an early pint. What the fuck did she want her to do? Go on some zen quest that would make her realize that life in the Circle wasn’t so terrible? It was terrible. That wasn’t a mistake, she knew. She was never going back. Ever. She would die first.

They were fighting this Maker-damned war so that they didn’t have to go back. Fiona didn’t want to go back to the Circle any more than she did. So what the fuck was she trying to say? Vell looked at Fiona. She was a fucking  _ Orlesian  _ and this was probably some damned  _ Orlesian  _ mind game she was playing.

But the Grand Enchanter’s voice sounded sincere. Some mages liked to share stories about how they came to the Circle. But many, especially those who had done something terrible, kept their mouths shut about it. Bragging about how you froze so-and-so or burned down whatever place with your fledgling magic was a way to get a couple laughs in the mess hall, but also a way to get the Templars up your ass for the rest of your life. The smart people shut their mouths and didn’t talk about it.

Was this the Game? What was Fiona trying to get out of her? The Grand Enchanter could send any mage to do this fetch quest. Go meet the Collective, talk to them and get them to sign some paper and then bring it back to Skyhold. She didn’t even need to send a mage. Any idiot could go if you circled the spot on the map and pinned a note with instructions to their shirt.

She had specifically called for Vell though. This wasn’t just a matter of convenience that Vell had penned a few Collective mages in recent years. She didn’t even know if any of those same people were going to wherever she needed to go.

Vell wasn’t anything like the Grand Enchanter. 

She told herself that again, but now, she wasn’t quite sure.


End file.
